


The Talent Discrepancy

by salience



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Implied Slash, M/M, Talented Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 09:48:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21159665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salience/pseuds/salience
Summary: Merlin's been telling Arthur for years that he has many talents. They just so happen be hidden, but Merlin has always had a knack for surprising people.





	The Talent Discrepancy

**Author's Note:**

> So, I saw this prompt on tumblr and was powerless to resist. This fic is actually a gift to patroclusdefencesquad on tumblr, who is the poster of the prompt and subsequent cause of the frenzied writing that led to this. I hope I've done your idea justice!
> 
> For anyone who's interested, here's the post: https://patroclusdefencesquad.tumblr.com/post/185845613912

Merlin had a knack for unwittingly surprising people. It happened as a boy, when the scraggly cat of Old Man Simmons lodged itself in a tree and the muscled farming boys couldn’t get up there. Merlin scaled the oak with ease, gangly limbs reaching the sparse branches where others couldn’t, and he plonked the mangy cat into stunned arms and went about his day. Even if it did earn him more suspicious glances.

Then there was that time Will wanted to make his mum a scarf for her birthday but snooty teenage girls wouldn’t help him. Will was an outcast by association. Merlin had glared at them, taken Will home, yanked the coarse yarn from his hands and walked off with a determined stomp. His mum taught him as a kid, so he was an adept teenager with quick fingers. He spent the night on it and in the morning, he gave Will a scarf. Will told him to thank Hunith, promptly expressed shock upon discovering Merlin was actually the one who made it, then called him a sodding girl. Merlin whacked him round the head in rebellion and that escalated into a boyish scuffle in the doorway.

So, surprises had been orbiting Merlin his whole life, unbeknownst him, it was only logical they follow him to Camelot. You see, Merlin had lived his time in Ealdor under the scrutiny and ridicule of its inhabitants, so nothing he ever did seemed impressive. Though if he really thought about it, all that time in isolation (save Will) had given him plenty of opportunities to accumulate a mishmash of skills. 

After ten years in Camelot surrounded by knight-types and being worked often to exhaustion, Merlin has cultivated more...talents since his childhood. That’s not to say his older ones don’t visit every now and then.

Today is one such day. Arthur’s taking petitions in the great hall which gives Merlin more time to finish his morning chores before Arthur loads on afternoon ones. Merlin huffs as fresh linens fall onto the bed, uses his forearm to mop the sweat from his hairline. Summer was in full swing and lugging a million tonnes of bedding was not ideal, but hey, a servant’s woe.

Sparrows twitter through the open window, and Merlin finds himself humming along with them while he pulls the sheet across. A familiar ditty begins taking shape as he secures the last corner, quiet words escaping him. It’s something his mum used to sing when she made bread, washed dishes, picked flowers. Whenever she was utterly content. So as Merlin’s hands conform to routine, he doesn’t notice the volume he’s taken until something clatters obnoxiously across the floor.

Arthur, stumbling into the room despite his death grip on the door. There’s a guilty flush below his collar that’s dominated only by the astonishment on his face. 

“You-“ He clears his throat. “Sing. You sing?”

Merlin eyes him, mildly concerned, and slowly lowers a fluffed pillow into place. “I suppose.”

“And it’s not horrible.”

“Uh, thanks. I think?”

“Well, don’t hurt yourself.” 

Arthur shakes his head, frowning like he’s confused over something. When he next meets Merlin's eye, it's with ill-concealed curiosity. Like he can’t quite figure him out. Merlin doesn’t like it. Pillows arranged, Merlin straightens up and folds his arms, a teasing twitch to his lip.

“You’re one to talk. Since when do you trip through doors?”

Merlin’s brows climb in amusement to see that flush not only returning, but spreading upward across Arthur’s cheeks.

“Arthur,” Merlin simpers. “You weren’t eavesdropping on me, were you?”

“No.” He says with all the conviction of child who’s been caught redhanded.

“You were!”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

Merlin opens his mouth to reply, mirth in his eyes but Arthur jabs a finger at him across the room. Merlin presses his lips together, trying to contain the smile but dimples blow his cover anyway.

“Not another word. Princes do not eavesdrop, least of all on servants. Make yourself useful and fetch lunch.” Arthur mandates with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

Merlin raises placating hands and strides to the open door. He’s almost out, hand on the wood ready to pull it closed, when Arthur calls him back.

“And Merlin? None of that singing lark outside of these chambers. It’s…just keep it to yourself.”

If Merlin were to read into that, he might suspect Arthur of actually enjoying his singing. And that maybe Arthur wants that to be something only they share, because other people don’t need to know that Merlin—Gods help him—has the voice of an angel. And maybe Arthur would prefer it if the angel only sung around him. And if Arthur asked Merlin to sing sometimes, well, no one else needed to know.

\- -

The sun warms the grass of the training field, dampens the back of Merlin’s neck where he sits sharpening Arthur’s sword. Because it’s maces and knives today and it’ll be one less thing to do tonight. Merlin had watched knife throwing enough to see the faults in Arthur’s knights. Plus, it had been something that helped put dinner on the table in Ealdor, even if he always felt guilty about it. So, when Gwaine misses his mark, Merlin snorts in derision. He’s all elbow and no wrist.

“Oi, who do you think you’re laughing at?” It’s said in jest, and Merlin smiles, stills the whetstone.

“Some bloke that can’t throw straight.”

The knights exchange amused glances with one another, the greener ones gathering to witness this unfamiliar dynamic. Arthur huffs and smirks into his waterskin. Today’s training has been rough on his nerves and watching Merlin make a fool of himself with knives might just cheer him up.

Gwaine saunters closer to Merlin and puts his hands on his hips, nodding down at the man. 

“Reckon you could do better, do you?”

Merlin’s eyes twinkle with glee. He was rather hoping Gwaine might say that. From the playful expression on his face, Merlin knew Gwaine had no idea he was about to be gloriously upstaged. Merlin shrugs nonchalantly, for appearances sake. Confident and convinced of an easy win, Gwaine de-gloves and tosses one onto Merlin’s lap.

“I challenge thee to a duel, Sir Merlin, for crimes of mockery. Trial by throwing knives.”

A few minutes later, a healthy ring of knights have converged on the field to orbit Merlin and Gwaine. Arthur plays moderator, announces that whoever hits bullseye on all three of their targets wins bragging rights and a free night at the tavern curtesy of loser. Gwaine is smug beside him, and the knives feel natural between Merlin’s fingers.

Merlin is going to absolutely destroy him.

It happens quickly. In the time it takes Gwaine to land one (off centre) knife, Merlin has deftly lodged all three of his into the targets. Collective silence shrouds the training ground as knights and squires try to processes what they’ve just seen. Merlin’s knives glint in the sun, their blades buried cleanly through red-marked wood. Bullseyes. 

“Ha!” Merlin proclaims, victorious, only to see that everyone is staring at him open mouthed. Even Leon looks wrong footed. 

Slowly, gobsmacked faces begin morphing into sheer delight. Because Gwaine has just been hilariously duped into challenging an apparent knife throwing doyen. Not even Arthur can hide how impressed he is when he claps Merlin on the back with a bark of laughter. Because _Merlin_ of all people can throw knives better than him. Who would’ve thought?

The knights crowd around Merlin, who dimples brightly under the attention. Elyan ruffles his hair, followed by a slew of others that leave him looking fresh from bed but he doesn’t care, not when he’s being hoisted onto Kay’s shoulders and felicitated.

“I…wh—how? How?” Gwaine asks himself, still staring at the struck targets, utterly dumfounded.

Back on the ground, Merlin peers through the knights and eyes Gwaine with a shit eating grin.

“See you at the tavern, aye, Gwaine? I’d buy a round if I weren’t so busy being a winner.”

Gwaine nods, shakes his head, he’s smiling despite himself because how can he stay mad at that smile? 

As it turned out, Gwaine only got to buy Merlin one tankard before all the other knights started delivering ale to the prince’s man. Gwaine wasn’t about to complain, less damage to his pockets. He did, however, tell them to start bringing water instead of alcohol when Merlin far surpassed sobriety. He took Merlin home, all graceless limbs and left feet, and dropped him to Gaius with an apologetic smile.

\- - 

Midsummer brings with it a whirlwind of activity among the serving staff. Fun as the summer solstice celebrations were, bringing them to fruition was something of a nightmare. Merlin was being exploited by the steward, something Arthur didn’t seem to acknowledge because he always had something to say when Merlin arrived late and out of breath.

Now, Merlin may be on his last nerve with the steward, both exhausted and riddled with aches, but he was a brilliant friend. Gwen never made a big deal about her birthday because it fell so close to a major celebration. She was very clear about being unfused with gifts and _really, please don’t trouble yourself, Merlin._

You would think she’d stop insisting after ten years of Merlin ignoring her completely. Never flashy or expensive, but they always meant something. This year, however, Merlin had saved enough of his wages (or: his mum told him to stop sending her so much money and for goodness sake buy yourself some new boots) to afford a cream silk handkerchief. Moreover, he sweet-talked the royal seamstress into giving him a spool of gold thread. 

Merlin spent many an hour meticulously working on the design, but for Gwen, totally worth it. He found her a few days before the solstice feast and had to physically drag her away from her duties for a moment of peace. Out in a blessedly quiet corridor, Merlin handed her the wrapped gift and chewed anxiously on his lip while she opened it.

Gwen tutted as she unwound the twine. “Honestly, Merlin, you didn’t have to.”

Merlin shrugged innocently, because she should know better by now. All his worries slipped away when she gasped and held the handkerchief aloft. She fingered the design with parted lips. It was a sun, a detailed swirl of delicately embroidered gold and yellow. His mum was a great teacher, after all, always kissed his pinpricks better.

“Oh, Merlin, it’s beautiful.” She said with misplaced reverence. “I had no idea you were so skilled with a needle.”

Merlin jerked a shoulder again, bashful but proud he procured such a positive response. Gwen looped her arms around his neck, tiptoes and all, and Merlin bent into the embrace. She whispered a thank you into his ear and dropped a kiss to his cheek, brown eyes dancing with moisture and love.

Later, when Arthur happened upon Gwen in passing, he eyed the material in her hand and the soft smile on her face. She’s so busy admiring it that she almost bumps right into him.

“Oh! Hello, sire.” She dips into a polite curtsey.

“Guinevere.” He acknowledges. “Have you have a secret admirer?”

“No, Merlin, actually. He made it for me.”

“Merlin?”

“Yes, sire.” 

She offers it up for inspection, and Arthur is surprised at the delicacy of the work. It certainly explains the pinpricks he’d spied as of late whenever Merlin laced his shirts. Between this and the singing, Arthur wondered if perhaps Merlin really was a girl. A tall, angular girl with plush lips and stupidly long lashes. His proficiency with knives suggest otherwise. Arthur hands it back with with a contemplative frown and bids her farewell.

When Merlin brings him his dinner that night, Arthur can’t resist.

“So, where's my handkerchief?”

“What?” Merlin asks from where he’s collecting strewn clothes.

“Guinevere got one.”

“For her birthday.”

“I’m the prince.”

“You’re an entitled prat, is what you are.”

Arthur all but forgets about the conversation, until his own birthday rolls around and he spies a folded cloth beside his breakfast. Merlin is nowhere to be seen, seems to have left in a hurry if the crooked placement of cutlery was to be a clue. Confused and yet to connect the dots, Arthur sits down and picks it up. It’s red silk, and as it unfurls to his fingers so too does a gold dragon. It’s in flight, great wings devouring the red and intricate flames escaping it’s mouth. It isn’t the Pendragon crest, but somehow it feels more familiar, more personal. He recognises the work, because even the royal seamstress cannot thread such large designs with such delicacy.

If Arthur lets his touch linger on Merlin’s arm a bit longer after that, shares more secretive smiles, then that’s just for them to know, maybe for others to notice. Just as only Merlin knows of how Arthur always keeps the handkerchief on his person, no matter the circumstance, and refuses to use it lest it gather grime

\- - 

Years of servitude have definitely helped Merlin grow into his limbs. Gone is the spindly boy that tripped his way into Camelot. Lean muscle yawns beneath his skin, fills his shoulders, tightens his stomach. So Merlin agrees to help carry autumn’s wood into the castle, because winter licks eagerly at their ears and the storehouse needs filling. A gaggle of lads drag cartloads of lumber into the courtyard, looking reluctant as they start unloading their haul.

Merlin asks if they need help, and they can’t say yes fast enough because they’re just kids with splintered hands. Merlin reaches in and plucks two crates free, slots them securely under his arms, and takes the steps two at a time.

When he returns for more, it’s to see Percival struggling with three crates of his own. Percy may be a behemoth, but the indulgences that come with knighthood have robbed him his boulder-moving abilities. Merlin watches for a moment, jogs over when Percy almost drops his load, and smiles fondly.

“Here, let me.”

“No, no, all good, I wouldn’t want you to…” Percival is coerced into shocked silence when Merlin rather impressively hoists all three crates up like they’re nothing. “…hurt yourself.”

“Don’t worry about this lot, Perce, I got it.”

There isn’t a hint of strain in Merlin’s voice as he turns and ascends into the castle, peering around the tower in his arms to watch the steps. Percival wonders when the hell Merlin got so bloody strong, because those crates aren't light. Rather self-consciously, Percival clears his throat and pretends not to notice the lumber boys whispering as he lifts two crates free and hurries into the castle. He finds Merlin along the way and walks back with him.

“Merlin, how come you’ve never tried for the knights?”

“That would be laughable.”

“I doubt it, you’re just as brave and loyal as any of us. You lift those like they’re nothing.”

“Comes with the job I s’pose. Lifting that is. Don’t be too hard on yourself, Perce, we can’t all indulge ourselves with feasts, and cook never skimps on the butter.”

Merlin winks and skips ahead. Well, not skips, but it’s a near thing. The next time he trains, Sir Percival makes a point of going hard on all the drills and pretends not to see Merlin’s knowing smile at the edge of the field.

\- - 

When the end of the year rolls around, Arthur decides to host a private feast with his inner circle for Yule. Merlin thinks it’s sweet how excited he gets about doing something nice for his friends, even if it was Merlin’s idea to begin with. He also deals with varying degrees of disappointment because it’s quite clear he isn’t included in this inner circle. Which hurts a lot more than he thought it would because Merlin has been by Arthur’s side through everything. But anyway.

As Yule dawns, Arthur puts Merlin in charge of decorating, who enlists Gwen’s help because he doesn’t know what the hell ‘effortlessly festive’ looks like. Content in the knowledge that Gwen will make the space look lovely, Merlin makes his way to the kitchens to check on preparations. 

He’d given cook Arthur’s menu a week in advance for insurance sake because she hated last minute demands. And because Arthur decided to pick a very long-winded recipe. But when he gets to the kitchens, cook is nowhere to be seen and the kitchenmaids are all looking very stressed.

“Where’s cook?”

“She’s ill, Merlin! Gods, what are we going to do? She didn’t leave any instructions for the main because of her secret recipe!”

Merlin thinks about it for a second, contemplates the menu that’s been pegged onto a sausage line, and nods to himself. He’d cooked enough with his mum to know the basics, and spent plenty of time in here watching the ebb and flow. It was his favourite place to hide when Arthur was in a mood because not even the king wasn’t exempt from cook’s wrath.

“Elle, Angie and Margaret, start prepping the vegetables. Audrey and Clara on gravy. If I could get Enid, Willa and Rose started on dessert that would be great, it’s just those fig tarts. Oh, and Myra, can you please make a herb paste? Mix it with some oil.” 

The women don’t question him for a second, peeling off to their stations and dancing in and out of the pantry. Merlin unhooks the pork and drops it onto a tray. He had watched cook prepare roast pig many times, so he hardly had to think as he scored the skin and crusted it with salt. 

Gwen pops down after the pork is slotted into the oven, and double takes when she sees Merlin kneading a mound of dough. Myra putters toward him with a congested mortar, pestle shiny with oil in her other hand. Merlin smiles, takes it from her and sets it beside himself. Concerned for the food, Gwen weaves between chittering scullery maids and stops behind Merlin’s shoulder.

“Hey, Gwen.”

“Hello…” She greets slowly. “Um, I finished the table, did you want to take a look?’

“Nah, I’m sure it looks amazing. Thanks for that by the way, you’re a life saver. Could you please grab me a bowl of water?”

Gwen blinks a couple of times, for this is surely a dream, but turns around only to have Enid appear from thin air with water in hand. Enid doesn’t even seem to notice that Gwen has taken the bowl, too busy making eyes at Merlin. When she deigns to notice Gwen’s presence, she sniffs in disapproval and spins away.

“What on earth is going on?” Gwen whispers, transfixed as Merlin's fingers dip into the water and gloss the dough.

“Audrey said cook fell ill so I’m, you know, helping out.”

“Right…have you, um, have you cooked before?” When Merlin frowns, she backtracks and tries to sound less dubious. “Not that you wouldn’t be able to cook, that is, I’ve just never seen you do it before that’s all.”

The lines on Merlin’s face ease into something relaxed, and confident fingers begin separating the dough into perfect bun-sized lumps.

“My mum taught me, bread at least. Everything else I sort of know from observing the kitchens. Like how cook bastes her pork with herbs while it roasts, and how she pours meat juices into her gravy for more flavour.”

“That’s—actually really impressive.”

“Arthur would call it too much free time.” Merlin mocks, imitating the prince’s voice while carving little crosses into his buns.

“You’re full of surprises, Merlin.” Gwen says, smile indulgent. Arthur really didn’t appreciate this man enough. The kitchenmaids certainly do, all the cow eyes and girlish whispering, giggling as they watch Merlin. 

“I think you’ve got a few admirers.” She teases, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

Merlin looks over his shoulder, where Rose and Willa are already smiling at him, and turns around with an adorable pink to his cheeks. Gwen pats his shoulder comfortingly, because it’s so very hard being the object of everyone’s affection. She tells him that she’ll be down later to help bring the food up, and flits from the kitchen.

When later rolls around, Merlin stands behind Arthur’s chair like he always does, but now he pays close attention to everyone’s faces. Gwen is also in attendance, standing across the table with a wine pitcher, making faces at him whenever the knights say something daft. Which is often.

Gwaine groans every time he shovels pork behind his teeth and Merlin actually catches Percival eating a spoon of gravy straight from the pot. He and Gwen stifle a laugh when a thick glob of said gravy makes a run for it and escapes onto his shirt. Leon raised brows at the meat when he first chewed it and peer pressured Elyan into trying some when the man just wanted his buttered potatoes. Arthur raises his goblet in question and Merlin hastens to answer with wine.

“I think we can all agree that cook deserves praise for this. She’s outdone herself with the pork. Send her my compliments, will you, Merlin?

Merlin nods, because he doesn’t need the attention. Gwen disagrees and speaks up.

“Actually, my lord, Merlin made the meal in cook’s absence.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Gwen bites her lip like she’s overstepped and five pairs of eyes lock onto Merlin. Gwaine swallows a mouthful and throws his hands up in defeat.

“What can’t he do? Seriously, mate, you oughta show us what else you’ve got up those baggy sleeves of yours.” Gwaine points at him with a forked carrot.

“Did you really make this?” Arthur asks in a tone Merlin can’t quite discern.

“Um, yeah?” Merlin answers, shy as he averts his eyes from their scrutiny.

Gwaine impales another carrot and sighs, forlorn and dramatic. “Can I marry him?”

“You may not.” Arthur snaps, clearing his throat as all eyes fall on him. He swallows a thick portion of embarrassment and tries to explain. “He’s…Merlin.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Merlin asks.

“Um-“

“Probably means princess isn’t keen on sharing.”

“What?”

“Nothing!” Arthur says it louder than necessary because he absolutely will not let Gwaine embarrass him further. Merlin grumbles over his shoulder, muttering something he can’t quite catch but could probably guess at. Desperate for the knights to stop looking at him like they know something he doesn’t, Arthur finds Gwen.

“Guinevere, would you be so kind as to fetch another plate? I think Merlin deserves to enjoy this meal too. Grab one for yourself while you’re at it.”

Gwen curtsies to disguise a smile and hurries out of the room. Arthur glares at the knights, who glance amongst themselves like conspiring children. After a while, Merlin is seated beside Arthur and engulfing his own dinner.

“I didn’t know you could cook like this.”

“I keep telling you, I have many talents.”

“Debatable. Who upended my desk this morning when they tripped on nothing?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s my line.”

“Then you should know what it means.”

\- - 

Arthur has been…friends with Merlin for a while now, and he’d come to learn a lot about the man. Like how he loathes hunting trips because he has such a big heart. And that he sings whenever he makes a bed, hums while he polishes armour. He’ll help anyone anyway he can, even if it means he ends up late with Arthur’s dinner. Merlin brings wildflowers to widowed Candice, an elderly courtier in the west wing.

Arthur has also come to appreciate just how much depth of character Merlin actually has. When they first met, Arthur saw a gangly farm boy with no manners and a smart mouth. Now, Arthur sees a man who has a heart of gold, who plays with children and brings old ladies flowers. Whose singing can calm Arthur after the toughest of days, who can beat Gwaine in a knife fight without blinking. 

A man that uses his free time to embroider handkerchiefs, something that has easily become Arthur’s most prized possession because no gift has ever meant as much. A man that’s filled out admirably even if his worn jacket hides it. Most beneficial by far, was the discovery that Merlin is a fantastic cook, so if herbs and salt appear in Merlin’s saddlebag, he’ll look knowingly at Arthur. Camp food has never tasted so good. 

And Merlin might be a little bit magic, because no amount of hidden talent can keep a bath at the perfect temperature, nor his sheets so soft or his dinner so warm. Not to mention the deep stains that miraculously vanish from shirts, when professional laundresses have had no luck in the past. Arthur already had plans to elevate Merlin’s position once the ban was repealed, because a man of his calibre deserves more recognition that Arthur can give. 

The clincher comes during a routine patrol. Bandits ambush their camp during the night and unarm them before they even wake. When they do, it’s to see said bandits looting the saddlebags. They may be without weapons, but they’re knights of Camelot and they’ll be damned if they sit idly by.

Punches are thrown, kicks are landed, but it’s Merlin who finally manages to wrestle a sword from one of the assailants. Things only get more bizarre from there, because _Merlin_ bests the bandits without assistance from the actual knights. He’s sweaty and out of breath, and when he looks upon them, Merlin finds five faces slack with disbelief.

“That’s it.” Percival asserts. “If Merlin isn’t knighted soon I’m quitting.”

It’s enough to break everyone from their shock-induce daze, Merlin laughs and goes about collecting their swords. 

“Hang on,” Arthur blurts with conviction and a whole lot of realisation. “Have you been pretending to be useless this whole time to get out of sparing with us?”

Merlin rather sheepishly hands off Elyan’s sword and gives Arthur a guilty look.

“Maybe.”

“Oh, you little bastard! Ten years! Ten years of thinking I had the most useless manservant in the world, when really, _really_ I have the best!”__

_ _“I’m the best now, am I?”_ _

_ _“I didn’t say that.”_ _

_ _“You did, sire.” Leon says with far too much glee. “Right, lads?”_ _

_ _A chorus of agreement fills the air as the knights vehemently debunk his denial. Honestly, where was the respect? The loyalty? He didn’t sign up for all this treachery. Flustered, Arthur snatches his sword from Merlin and uses it to point at the man._ _

_ _“I officially forbid you from pretending to be hopeless with a sword. As a matter of fact, you can join us for training next week.”_ _

_ _“I’m not even a knight.” Merlin groans. “Why do I need to train? I’m clearly great already.” He gestures at the bodies for backup._ _

_ _“I can damn well make you a knight.”_ _

_ _And that’s how it came to be. Because surprises had orbited Merlin his whole life, and his ascension to nobility was the biggest surprise of all. Arthur didn’t knight Merlin because that didn't seem right, but he did bestow a lordship upon him. And when magic returned to the land, Arthur and Merlin had a very lengthy discussion, and Lord Merlin became Court Sorcerer of Camelot. After that, it really didn’t take long for everything else to fall into place. And If the High King of Albion had a very magical consort, no one could complain because Arthur’s happiness bore only prosperity. _ _

_ _So really, when it comes down to it, Merlin’s knack for exposing his own hidden talents is what fulfilled the prophecy. Because after finding out about his capability with weapons, apparent artistry in embroidering, aptitude for singing and cooking, the addition of magic felt like the final piece of a puzzle slotting into place._ _

_ _The discrepancy remains, however, on account of Merlin being the most impressive man Arthur knows and simultaneously the most clumsy. Because Merlin is Merlin, and that’s all Arthur has ever needed him to be._ _


End file.
